Tandem Apparati

The reason I don’t like tandem bikes or kayaks, or any other tandem style sporting apparati, is that they are conceptually fallacious. On the surface they seem cute and romantic, but it’s a farce. At first glance you might think, “That’s nice, they’re working together as a team to achieve a common goal” but what you don’t see are the furrowed brows or the rolling eyes. You don’t hear the grumbling and insults under the breath when one person is going too slow or fast, or left or right. No, tandem sporting apparati can be disastrous for a relationship, and I seriously question the validity of their show of promoting teamwork. I submit that couples who ride their own bikes, or paddle their own boats, are actually working together more efficiently than tandem users. On tandem apparati, only one person steers. One person determines the direction in which you travel, while the other, like a solitary lemming, is forced to follow. Where is the teamwork in that?

You might argue that when dancing one person often leads, and what is more romantic than a rumba? I say that’s different. When dancing you are often facing one another, holding hands, there is an intimacy that staring at the back of somebody’s head while they splash you with water is lacking. What about spooning, you might ask. Spooning is back to front, spooning is intimate, and one person stares at the back of the other’s head, if they can’t sleep. I say that too is different. When you’re riding a bike behind somebody you can’t feel their heart beating against your chest. You can’t feel the goose bumps rise when you kiss them gently on the back of their neck. On a tandem apparatus you are in close proximity, but you are kept apart, but you are kept in close proximity. There is no intimacy, and no freedom. It’s the worst kind of relationship.

A good relationship needs a healthy dose of teamwork, but it also needs equal parts individuality. Everybody needs to feel like they can branch out. They need to feel like they can get away for a while, if they need to. If I’m riding bikes with somebody I want to be able to veer off and hit a jump, or a mailbox, and come back to their side, hopefully laughing, hopefully not bleeding. I want to be able to paddle away, chase a seagull, or get a closer look at a dead fish, and not feel bound by the confines of a sleek fiberglass prison. I need to feel free with somebody.

Doing things together with the freedom of optional divergence is definitely the way to go. Tandem bikes can be the death of an already lifeless relationship, where matching bikes can breathe new life into it. Just don’t get matching jackets. That’s the lamest shit ever.

When It Isn't Murder

I don’t like killing living things. Some things are virtually unavoidable, like bugs in your teeth when riding your bike, and blades of grass, but in general I try to never kill anything, needlessly. Granted, I am the indirect cause of things being killed for me to eat or use, like cows, pigs, chicken fetuses, trees, and bamboo, but I try to justify that by attempting to live a life of carbon neutrality, when it’s not Inconvenient. Having said that there are certain things that I do not mind killing;

-Mosquitoes
-Other things that bite me without provocation and are very small
-Time
-Silverfish (though I never see them. Especially not at my house)
-Bowls of ice cream
-Mice (but only by setting them free in owl country)
-Apples
-Orcs
-Other evil fantasy based creatures
-Buzzes
-Freaky looking spiders lurking in my bed (I usually try to catch them in something and then set them free in owl country, but if they’re really ugly I’m not scared ((because I’m so scared)) to kill them first, preferably with something very long)
-Six packs

A less incomplete list may follow.

Floored, I got Level 4ed

As incomprehensible as it sounds, I have been placed on Level 4 Timeout, just days after explaining the Timeout Level System. I’m sure you can understand I’m a little dazed. I, the innovator of the Timeout Level System, have been defriended using the very guidelines I set in stone in blog format. Evidently the friend who defriended me claims that I am no friend in the end, due to my lack of contact via Facebook. I have said it before, and am now saying it again, Facebook is just another roadside bomb in the internet insurgency against real human social interaction. My unceremonious dismissal into Level 4dom with the touch of a button is another perfect example. In the real world people would have to face each other, speak even, and dare I say, make eye contact. In the real world people would be quicker to forgive a week or so, or month maybe, of neglect, because they would have to face each other’s emotions, and deal with the repercussions. Facebook, and any other medium of the like, sidesteps all tangible relations between friends and acquaintances and makes a mockery of the very definition of society. It’s too easy to befriend and defriend in the internet age. I wonder if there will come a time when there are no true friends at all, when people merely leave electronic messages for each other, and “block” each other for not messaging back in due course. One day will all our friends merely be profile pictures that send us trivial messages once in a while like, “Hey!! Wuts up???” or “Laaaaaatttteeee.” Maybe we’ll be unable to cope with the lack of human contact. Maybe society itself will crumble under the pressures of pretend friendships that never measure up.

Maybe I’m just pissed that I got put on Level 4 Timeout.

I'm This Many

They say you’re only as old as you feel, but I just can’t decide what age to be. I know I’m pushing thirty years, but I can’t seem to nail down what that feels like. It’s confusing, because every day is different. Sometimes I feel like a teenager, and sometimes I feel like a very old man. Coincidentally, the times I feel like a teenager are often immediately followed by the times I feel like a very old man. Sometimes I feel like a kid, like when I’m finger painting, or eating a popsicle, and sometimes I feel as though somebody should put me on my death bed and pull the plug. Sometimes I fill my kiddy pool with warm goo and sit in it wrapped in a slippery canvas tarp while my stereo plays the sound of a gently beating heart. Sometimes I put on an old dress, thick loose stockings, and costume jewelry, smear lipstick around my mouth, and drink from a glass of bourbon while I complain that this meatloaf isn’t well done. Sometimes I stay up all night playing The Adventures of Link on original Nintendo instead of doing my homework and then have to run to catch the bus in the morning because I overslept and forgot to brush my teeth. Shit, I forgot my lunch again. I never really know how I’m going to feel on any given day. It’s all up to Chance, or Fate, or what I had for dinner (a Salisbury pork steak, barbecue sauce, no vegetables), so how can I in good conscience tell anybody how old I am when I can’t quite know myself? I think from now on if the topic of my age comes up I’m just going to hold my arms out as if I’m showing you the fish that got away and say, “I’m this many.” Then it’ll be up to you to decide how old I am, but guess wisely, I’m just dying to put somebody on Timeout.

Timeout

Recently I was forced to put somebody on Level 1 Timeout, but to my dismay she did not know what that is. I actually had to explain the nuances of the Timeout Level System. I decided then and there to explain the different levels of Timeout, in blog format, so that it does not happen again.

Level 1 Timeout – If you are put on Level 1 Timeout you are essentially on notice. It’s the Probation of the Timeout System. It’s much like the yellow card in soccer. Level 1 Timeout means you’re ok for now, but I have my eye on you, so watch your ass. Commit one more offence, however petty, and you’ll immediately find yourself on…

Level 2 Timeout – On Level 2 Timeout you are still allowed to talk to me, but I am definitely mad at you, so watch what you say. An example of something you could do to find yourself on Level 2 (ladies) is to tell your mother, whom I just met, about me pooing my pants today (the real perpetrator of this offence actually only found herself on Level 1, but that is only because I cannot stay mad at her). Something else I should mention is that things can escalate quickly on Level 2. The difference between Level 2 and Level 3 is actually closer to half a level. Be on your best behaviour or it could be a one way ticket to…

Level 3 Timeout – There is no talking on Level 3 Timeout. There is no contact. On Level 3 you are sitting in the proverbial corner. You do not speak until spoken to, and I decide when that is. Forcing the issue can be a slippery slope toward…

Level 4 Timeout – This is only implemented in severe cases. Level 4 Timeout is not so much a timeout as it is a severing of ties. In rare cases it has been reversed, but this takes a long time, a lot of pleading, expensive gifts, and offers of massages which must be produced immediately if you’re given a chance (the ending of said massages being lady’s choice).

I hope this guide to the Timeout Level System has been helpful, and I hope now I’ll never have to explain myself again. It takes a lot of the sting out of placing somebody on Timeout when you have to explain Timeout to them before they can fully understand just where they have been placed, especially when that somebody is a beautiful girl with tiny skull like a baby chimp's.

Running Late

This morning I pooed my pants. The morning started like any Monday morning; overtired and overNintendoed, but then I had to poop. It was a doozy. When I was all done I tried to keep getting ready for work, but again I had to poop. It too was a doozy. I had a bit of a tummy ache but wrote it off as hunger. I didn’t even wonder. I got dressed, got my lunch, and got in the van. I drove about a hundred yards down the road, but then again I had to poop. I had to poop right now. I turned around as fast as I could and raced back home, but by the time I got to my driveway I was pooping. I poop-walked up the ramp, stripped off my pants, which were essentially a dirty diaper, and sat on the toilet for a while, contemplating what it means for a man of almost thirty to be pooing his pants on the way to work. I got in the shower. After my shower I re-dressed (in clean clothes) and carefully carried my pants, underoos, and socks, yes my socks, outside and hosed them off. That took a few minutes. Then I threw it all in the washing machine and left for work for the second time. By then I was already fifteen minutes late, so I called my boss.

“Hey Ted Nugent, I’m on my way, I’ll be right there. I pooed my pants.”

All I heard was laughter. When I got to work I explained what happened to more laughter, and then got working hoping I could put the whole mess behind me. That did not happen. It was a long morning. I pooped a lot, and was the butt of many jokes.

By lunchtime I was feeling a little better so I ate four pieces of pizza. That must have helped, because the rest of the day flew by without any frantic trips to the bathroom. I’m feeling even better now, so perhaps whatever was in me is now out of me. I just wish I knew what it was. There were more than a few questionable culinary adventures over the weekend. It could have been the hot chili stir-fry, the vegetable dumplings, the pork tacos, the 2 for 1 Ali Baba pizza (which was a rip-off by the way. I think that place is actually run by the forty thieves), or it could have been the chicken Subway I ate slowly over the course of eighteen hours while it sat out on the kitchen counter. Whatever it was, some doubt has been cast on my status as The Iron Stomach. It might take a little while to regain it fully, but really I just hope nobody finds out I pooed my pants.

Old News

I just heard on the news that experts are saying Al Qaeda may be planning new terror attacks. It made me wonder, are the Yankees playing baseball? Is NASA looking at stars? Are bricklayers laying brick, spelunkers spelunking? Perhaps better Breaking News might have been that Al Qaeda is planting an herb garden, or producing a crossover hip hop single with Kelis, my Jihad brings all the boys to the yard? Why is the news so redundant? Are they even trying, or are they just sitting around the newsroom fanning themselves, (whiny voice) “It’s too hot out. I don’t wanna go find news. Can’t we just say what we always say?” Wankers.

What I'd Like To Do

I’ve been thinking about life and how precious it is, and how we so often squander the time we’re given by doing the things we think we have to do. What a waste of life. We should think more about what we would really like to do, instead of what we’ve been told to do. This is what I’ve decided. Rather than live among the masses of mongrels we call mankind, I’d rather live in a tent up a mountain by myself, cooking sausages on a small stove. I'd probably have a dog for company. One that would kill rabbits and squirrels for me to cook in stew. Maybe two dogs that could bring down small deer and protect me from pumas and such. I'd probably have to fashion a bow and some arrows and practice until I could hit a moving squirrel at fifty yards. Then I would make a sewing needle from some kind of rabbit bone and sew deer skins into a warm coat for the winter months. I might eventually build a log cabin and stuff sewn hides with goose feathers for a bed. Maybe I'd use a stuffed rabbit as a pillow. I would learn through trial and error which berries were nutritious, and which would kill me. Then I would build up an immunity to the deadly ones in case I ever needed to trick somebody else into eating them so I could feast on their flesh. Of course I wouldn't do that unless I was really, really hungry. I would live wild and free on the mountain until people learned I was up there and came to gawk or teach me about the Lord, their saviour. I would have to kill them. I guess after a few went missing the law would start looking for me and I would have to retreat farther into the wild. I would leave my log cabin and my deerskin bed, but I would bring my rabbit pillow, because there really isn't anything softer and more satisfying to sleep on than a rabbit pillow. I would pack my bow and what little arrows I had carved from saplings, call my dogs, and head out to live in a tent I had made from the hide of a black bear. There would also be a smaller tent for my dogs, made of smaller dogs. We would have to keep moving, only staying in one place for a night or two. Eventually the law would catch up to us and there would be a terrible battle. Many would fall to my arrows. My dogs would be slain protecting me, and I would be shot in the leg. I'd probably limp to the nearest river and follow it down so their hounds would lose my scent. Then I'd quickly chop down a mighty tree and ride it further away from my pursuers. I would pass out at some point from blood loss and wake up on a distant shore. There would be strange looking people surrounding me with pitchforks and gaffs. They would be jabbering in a language I couldn't understand, but through hand signals and a lot of howling I would make them understand I needed a doctor to get the bullet out. A young girl would then take the bullet and put it on a necklace for me to wear. Over time I would gain their trust and learn their language. I would marry their daughters and father many children. I might even shave my beard. One day I might get a new dog. I would name it, "My Old Dogs" in memory of those that died so that I may live. There would be some kind of ceremony, maybe with roast pig, I'm not sure. I guess I'd be getting old at that point. My health might be failing. Maybe I would start forgetting the names of my many wives and they would conspire against me. They might want younger husbands. They would probably make me a hot drink made of some sort of poisonous berries. I would drink it and pretend to die. They would carry me into the woods and dig a hole to bury me. When they weren't looking I would fill my canteen with air to breathe while I was being buried. They would bury me alive, unknowingly, and go home quite proud of themselves. They would probably all drink and laugh together and talk about the new rich husbands they might find. In the morning they would pretend they hadn't seen me. Weeks would go by and everybody would think I had wandered off and been eaten by the local tribe of rabid monkeys. Of course I would have dug myself out after the women left and befriended the monkeys, plotting revenge. I would allow a suitable amount of time to pass, so that all my ex wives would forgot about me. I don’t know how long that might be. I would have a rabid monkey spy on them and report back to me. Also, it would throw shit at them. I’m sure it would take a long time to make my army of rabid monkeys understand why they were attacking a human village, but I would eventually show them a picture of a chimp dressed up as a maid, with another chimp smoking a cigarette. Their rage would boil over. We would attack that night. While the rabid monkeys were creating havoc in the village I would start a large fire and stand before it laughing loudly. Villagers would hear my bellows and see my specter-like silhouette in front of the flames and they would think I had risen from the dead. My ex-wives would go mad at the sight of me, thinking I had come to drag them back to hell. Some would cry, some beg forgiveness, but all would be pelted mercilessly with rabid monkey shit. All my children would be spared. I would tell them to go out into the world and conquer it. I guess after that I would be pretty tired. I’d go back to my monkey home in the trees and sleep. I think I might die then, in my sleep, content that I had lived a full life. The monkeys would honour me as a great monkey leader, and leave my body to the scavengers. My bones would be picked clean by birds and feral dogs. Ants would swarm over me devouring my rotting flesh and bringing bits back to their queen. Some day, far in the future, scientists would find my bones. DNA tests would show that I was the ancestor of many great leaders and tyrants. I would be placed in a museum and gawked at for many generations. Maybe scientists would learn how bring people back to life, through stem cell research, and they would recreate me. I would come back with all of the knowledge I once had. It must have been stored in my bones somehow. Then I would stand trial for killing those missionaries and police officers so long ago. I would argue that having been dead for many a year I had already paid my dues to society. A jury of my peers would agree. I would live for a time in their futuristic city, but I would not be happy. One day I would pack a few things and wander off into the wilderness, looking for peace, solitude, and adventure.

The King is Dead, Long Live the King

In 1977, Elvis Presley was found dead in his home in Graceland. Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen was named Best Single of the last 25 years in 1977. I was born in late 1977. My name means Little King. Somebody once told me that I would make a good Bohemian writer. Some coincidences cannot be ignored. Clearly the old king died to make way for a new one. It was written in the stars that I would be the next King, a Bohemian King, and I would write to change the world. Until now I have seen fit to shirk my Royal duties, and have avoided declaring myself Messiah, because I feared the responsibility of being a Bohemian Saviour, but it is becoming clear that the time is near when I will have to take up my typewriter and write my own Rhapsody for the good of Mankind. Soon I will have to take my place among History’s great Spiritual Leaders, and lead Mankind into a new Age of Prosperity. Soon you will hear my call, and you will listen, and you will follow, for I am your King.

Army of Larkness

I bought a huge pot. It’s the kind they use in the military to feed all their soldiers. I could make enough jambalaya to feed an army. That’s the plan. I’m going to start an army. I don’t know yet why or what for, but an army is something I desperately need. What if I had thousands of highly trained men at my disposal?

“Go get me the paper! Make me a burrito! Fart in that man’s dinner!”
“Sir, yes Sir!”

Life would be easy. If I was unhappy at work I could just send in the troops.

“Sir, General Huntley would like it known that he is unhappy with his current wage, and if this is not alleviated immediately he will be forced to look the other way while your home is invaded and you are beaten with a mace.”

If I wasn’t getting the respect I deserve I could order my enemies to be administered The Death of a Thousand Cuts, and nobody could stop me.

I wouldn’t pay taxes, late fees, or attention. I wouldn’t give a damn. Really though, I wouldn’t be a despot. I might use my army for good, like for fighting pollution, cancer, or Brendan Fraser movies. I would not be afraid to go to war for the latter. If anybody deserved The Death of a Thousand Cuts it’s Brendan Fraser. George of the Jungle? Honestly. Even without my army, if I ever saw that guy, I would spit in his eye. I would probably put an end to all reality TV while I’m at it. All past Survivor cast members would be subjected to genitalia torture, except that first guy who won. I think he was into that. I’m starting to sound tyrannical again. That’s not really what I would be like. I’d be kind, approachable, like a mafia don on the day of his daughter’s wedding, but I wouldn’t be handing out favours. You want a free ride, get your own army. Mine’s busy sneaking a Mexican kitchen staff across the border. I realize to be able to attract soldiers to my cause I actually have to have a cause, so my first order of business is to think of something that will appeal to smart, strong, easily brainwashed men and women. Oh, and no fatties. I’d like to say my cause is to bring down the government and run this country the way it should be run, but that sounds too….insurgent. Plus, I’ve been likened to Adolf Hitler in the midst of my political rants. Oh not because I want to burn people alive or gas them to death, far from it. It’s because I’m so charismatic. And violently opinionated. A guy like me needs an army. An army like mine would make a difference. Of course in the beginning there would be hardship. There would be nay-sayers, disbelievers, prisoners, condemned, but it wouldn’t last. Eventually, due to my army’s control over the media, I would be heard around the world, and all would back me or perish. Well not perish in a physical sense, but be drowned out by the overwhelming support for my cause to build a utopian society free of control in which I am master and commander. That sucks, too Russell Crowe…my cause to build a utopian society free of control in which I am overlord. That’s better. It’s more…Ming Dynasty. I think I’ve gotten off track again. I hope I’m not scaring any potential freedom fighters away by my maniacal tangents. I’m not really a lunatic with wild and whimsical ideas. I’m more grounded than that. I’m down to earth. I believe in peace, and love, and the eradication of STD’s so that we may become as we were meant be, perilously promiscuous. My army will have scientists, with all the funding they need, searching for the cures for debilitating sicknesses and diseases, like AIDS, polio, and crab lice. It will fight for the little guy by killing the heads of major corporations who condone slave labour, rain forest destruction, and the use of sub-standard meats in frozen burritos. Every channel will be a soccer channel, except the Comedy Network. It will be used to broadcast the brutal executions of said corporate devils in hilarious ways. There will also be a channel called The Disgruntled Dictator Network. It will broadcast all sorts of rebellious content denouncing my reign, but it will be a two way channel so that I can see who watches it. Those people will quickly be seen on the Comedy Network. My army will have a Zen division, and in every community they will build a giant garden with bonsai trees, ponds stocked with koi, and sake, all the sake you can drink, and opium. My army will put a stop to evil drugs like meth, heroin, and paxil, while taking over the marijuana, ecstasy, and magic mushroom markets. It will guarantee the safe use of the right kind of drugs, and hilarious death for the users of any others. In short, it will be an army of larkness. Its mission will be to take this lifeless society and interject merriment, and social drinking to the benefit of all, but mostly me, because it was my idea.